difference in the negotiations over a built-in wall unit. Katie used her thumbs to type her most comforting words, even as she rolled her eyes in frustration.
Another e-mail delivered far worse news on the business front: a client who had been on the fence about making an offer for a West Village one-bedroom had climbed down on the wrong side. That he delivered the news to her electronically was not a good sign. On the phone, she had a chance of persuading him otherwise, or at least lining up the next showings. A terse e-mail like this one told her that the guy had written off not only this particular apartment, but his commitment to purchasing anything at all.
The message she received from Marj Mason, a caretaker at Glen Forrest Communities, was even more upsetting. Katie had seen the assisted living center’s telephone number pop up on her vibrating BlackBerry as she had stepped into the elevator with the Jennings. As Katie had requested a few months earlier, Marj had followed up with an e-mail. It was easier for her to check written messages than voice mails when she was with clients.
Katie’s mother had fallen again. According to Marj, there were no breaks this time—only bruises, and of course even more fear now of walking on her own. There was no way around it: Katie was going to have to increase the intensity of her mother’s care.
And then there was the final message: a text message that Katie had noticed first on her BlackBerry, but read last. She felt a knot form in her stomach as she took in the abrupt instructions.
As she replaced her BlackBerry in her red Coach purse, she prayed her mother would never find out about that final message, or what Katie would be doing the following night because of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
3:45 P.M.
Rogan was waiting for Ellie at his desk when she emerged from the locker room, freshly showered, hair still damp.
“We cool with the Lou?”
“Icy. Did you get hold of our guy in Narcotics?”
“Yep. He wasn’t real happy about sticking around for a five o’clock arrival. I told him we’d do our best.”
Ellie looked at her watch. It was nearing four. “Our best will be five o’clock.”
“Are you going to bother telling me why?”
“We’ll have to work our way through traffic going uptown.”
“
“We’re making a pit stop. You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, Rogan peered through a glass storefront window on Eighty-ninth and Madison and flinched.
“Is that woman doing what I
“Um, that would depend on what exactly your imagination might be doing with the input being processed by your visual cortex.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I think if my brain’s doing anything, it’s trying to forget what I just saw. That shit should be illegal.”
“It’s called threading,” Ellie said.
They watched as an Indian woman with smooth dark skin and burgundy-stained lips moved her head back and forth, using the grip of her teeth and the movement of her head to maneuver a thread across the face of a young blond woman seated on the other side of the glass window.
“She’s using a
“It’s called threading,” Ellie repeated.
“Should be called torture. What the fuck are we doing here?”
“You could use a little tidying up around there,” Ellie said, reaching for his brow line.
Rogan swatted her hand away.
“This is Perfect Arches,” she said. “It’s Thursday, ten after four. You don’t remember?”
“If you’ve some personal woman business to take care of, Hatcher, you really didn’t need to drag me along.”
“Perfect Arches? Thursday at four p.m.? Kristen Woods?”
“Kristen Woods is Sparks’s assistant.”
“The timeline, Rogan. When we first tried to track down Woods about the timeline, she was out of the office. She said she’s got a standing appointment every Thursday at four p.m. to have her eyebrows threaded. I asked her—”
Rogan snapped his fingers. “You asked her where. Then you went on and on about how perfect her eyebrows were. I was tempted to reach down and check my anatomy to make sure I was still a man, the two of you blathering like that in front of me.”
“I was
“So if Kristen loves you so much, why are we bombarding her at this dungeon of torture?”
“If we want to see Kristen without popping into the Sparks building, this is the place to do it. Look, there she is.”
Rogan followed the line of Ellie’s fingertip and spotted a woman with straight strawberry-blond hair down to her shoulders, leaning back in a salon chair, another Indian woman working her magic with a string of thread above her.
“She dyed her hair,” he observed.
“Did she?”
“Yeah. It didn’t have any red in it before. It was more your color.”
Ellie dropped her gaze. “You might want to check that anatomy after all, girlfriend.”
Rogan flexed his bicep and gave it a little kiss. “One hundred percent Afro-American Manly Man, sweetheart. Don’t you forget it.”
He tapped her with the back of his hand. “Heads up,” he said, his tone more serious.
Inside the salon, Kristen Woods checked her eyebrows in a handheld mirror, nodded her approval, and then walked to the front desk to pay.
“You ask me, the money should be going the other direction,” Rogan muttered.
Woods nearly ran into them as she exited the salon, and then turned back as a glimmer of recognition crossed her face.
“Ellie Hatcher, from the NYPD. My partner, J. J. Rogan.”
“Yeah, sure, I remember. I hear you and my boss had quite the run-in yesterday in court.”
Ellie was glad to see that the rapport she’d previously developed with Kristen had not been affected. “Mr. Sparks shares those sorts of colorful details with you, does he?”
“Are you kidding? He doesn’t tell me squat. I heard him yelling about it in his office yesterday. I think I got the gist.”
“I’m sure your boss was heartbroken by my brief period of incarceration.”
“Uh, yeah, if what you mean is that it only lasted a day. Sorry, you probably aren’t laughing about this yet.”
“Would you be? I couldn’t even keep my own underwear with me.”
“Eeewww.”
Rogan tapped one heel, his gaze affixed upward.
They both took the hint, and Kristen changed the subject. “You’re wrong about him, you know.”
“Wrong about what?” Ellie asked.
“About Sparks. He can be a prick in his own way, but he’s actually a decent person. There’s no way he’d kill
